Lady Wardeaux looked scandalized. “Good gracious, of course
not! Lady Alton did suggest it, but I would not dream of troubling him.”
“It would be the first place that I would look,” Henry said.
“Lady Marguerite might be taking breakfast with him.” He was glad that Francesca
Alton at least seemed to have some common sense and kept a cool head. “I’ll go
myself.”
“But what if she is not there?” Lady Wardeaux plucked at his
sleeve to detain him. “If you tell him she has run away he might die of the
shock—”
Henry was saved the trouble of replying as Chessie Alton came
hurrying down the stair. “I have found her! She is locked in her dressing
room.”
At his side Henry felt, rather than saw, Lady Emily make a
slight move. “Locked in?” she quavered. “Why would she do such a thing? Doesn’t
she like us?”
“I think,” Henry said impatiently, “Lady Alton means that
someone else has locked Lady Marguerite in.” He reached Chessie’s side in a
couple of strides. “Is the key not in the lock?”
“No.” Chessie shook her head. “And I can hear Margery beating
on the door although it sounds as though she is about half a mile away.”
“The doors here are very thick,” Henry said. “We shall need an
ax if we have to break it down.”
Lady Wardeaux gave a shocked gasp at the thought of violence
being perpetrated against the fabric of Templemore.
“Don’t worry, Mama,” Henry said. “It will be a last resort.” He
took Chessie’s arm and hurried her away up the stairs. Behind him he could hear
Lady Emily’s fluting tones rising to the rafters as she and his mother followed
them up the stair.
“But I don’t understand, Celia! The cards said quite clearly
that she had run away. They never lie to me.”
By this time they had also gained a retinue of interested
servants. Henry half expected the earl himself to come out and join the
crowd.
The door to Margery’s bedroom stood open and one of the earl’s
spaniels was sitting patiently beside the dressing room door. The key was in the
lock. “It was not there a moment ago,” Chessie said, mystified. “Someone is
playing tricks.”
Henry looked around. Lady Emily’s face was blank. His mother
looked pained and disapproving. The playing of anything, much less tricks, was
not in her repertoire. He wondered about the servants. It might be someone’s
idea of a practical joke but this seemed unlikely.
He turned the key in the lock and threw open the door. Margery
was sitting curled up on the carpet. She was stark naked.
Behind him there was a concerted intake of breath and something
approaching an outraged squawk from Lady Wardeaux. Henry tried to tear off his
riding jacket to cover Margery but since he wore his jackets fitted to
perfection this was easier said than done.
By the time he had struggled out of the jacket, Chessie, once
again demonstrating admirable practicality, had rushed across to the bed and
retrieved Margery’s robe. Henry flung it over her, then flung a curt dismissal
to his aunt, his mother and the growing throng of servants. They departed with
varying degrees of reluctance.
“Margery.” He drew her gently to her feet while at the same
time trying not to dislodge the robe. It slipped and he only managed to retrieve
it by pulling Margery hard against his body. For one long moment the warmth and
softness of her was pressed against him, imprinting itself on both his mind and
his body. Henry swallowed hard, wrapped her about more tightly with the robe and
averted his eyes.
“What on earth are you doing?” he asked, hearing the strain in
his voice. All he seemed able to see was Margery’s exquisite nakedness, her
dainty, perfect breasts, curvy buttocks and slender thighs. Even though she was
now covered in both the robe and a shawl that Chessie had brought for her, he
had to fight hard to try to expel those other images from his mind. He
remembered the sensation of her breast against his palm that night in the park,
the nipple hardening against his mouth, and almost groaned aloud.
“What does it look as though I’m doing?” Margery said
wrathfully. “Someone locked me in. It is not amusing. And what are you staring
at?” she added furiously as Henry found himself incapable of tearing his gaze
away from the slender curve of her legs below the thin silk of the robe. “It is
not chivalrous of you to stare.”
Chivalrous?
She expected him to
behave with chivalry? Henry closed his eyes briefly while he fought another
vicious battle with his imagination. When he opened them again Margery was still
standing there, her hair streaming loose down her back, her bare feet peeping
from beneath the robe and a stormy expression in her eyes that simply made Henry
want to grab her and kiss her.
“Lord Wardeaux,” Chessie interposed. “This is very improper. If
you would withdraw I shall call Lady Marguerite’s maid and help her to
dress.”
Henry jumped. “Oh. Of course.” He risked another look at
Margery and wished he had not. Her face was pink now with indignation and
self-consciousness. Henry wondered how far down that blush extended. He
remembered that there had been freckles dusted across her shoulders. He wondered
where else she might have them. Perhaps they were scattered across her breasts
or sprinkled along the soft skin of her inner thighs....
“Lord Wardeaux!” There was an irritated edge to Chessie’s voice
now. “Please leave us. Lady Marguerite needs to put some clothes on.”
That did not help Henry at all. All he seemed able to think of
was Margery with her clothes off rather than on. He heard the sensuous shift of
the silk robe against her skin as she walked quickly across to the chest and
started to pull out random undergarments. He caught sight of white lace and felt
another thud of lust.
Damnation. In five brief minutes Margery had undone all the
beneficial effects of his morning’s ride. He felt the frustrated desire tighten
like a vise in his belly.
He turned on his heel, went straight out into the yard and
tipped a bucket of cold water over his head. The stable hands were looking at
him with curiosity but he ignored them.
The ice-cold water did not help at all.
CHAPTER TEN
The Empress: Abundance, material and domestic comfort
Reversed: Tyranny and overprotectiveness
“I
T
IS
A
PITY
THAT
MILADY
lacks height.” The tall, thin, frighteningly elegant French
modiste
whom Lady
Wardeaux had summoned that morning from Faringdon looked Margery over from head
to toe and permitted a chilly smile to escape her lips. “She does however have
excellent taste and a delicate bone structure.”
Margery had never applied the word
delicate
to any part of herself. Nor did she appreciate being spoken
of in the third person as though she were either deaf or absent. Not that either
Madame or Lady Wardeaux considered that to be important. At present she had as
much authority as a china doll, to be dressed and styled, pinned and picked
over, her opinion of no account and her person held up to ruthless
appraisal.
Margery found it even more galling because as a lady’s maid she
had developed excellent taste, whereas Madame Estelle, she suspected, was no
more a French
modiste
than she was. In fact, Margery was almost certain that she had seen Madame in
Wantage several years back when she had been plain Esther Jones working in one
of the haberdashers’ shops.
They were in Margery’s bedchamber and the entire room was
crammed with clothes. They lay in piles on the bed and overflowed like a silken
tide from the chest, the chairs and the window seat. Madame Estelle had brought
with her a variety of ready-made gowns, which Lady Wardeaux had picked through
like a costermonger at a fair, selecting a half dozen that were apparently
intended to tide Margery over until the first of her originals were made.
Margery felt it was all appallingly extravagant but oh, she
could not resist. It was a very special treat suddenly to be swamped in
exquisite silk and lace after wearing nothing but coarse linens all her
life.
Madame was busy with her tape measure.
“My lady has breasts too small and no décolletage,” she
mourned. “We shall need padding to fill out the bodice.”
“Certainly not,” Margery said. “I refuse to be padded out like
a stuffed chicken. Stays will have to do.”
Henry had had no complaints about her figure, she thought, when
he had found her in the dressing room the previous morning. She had seen him
looking at her, had felt for one disturbing moment the warmth of his hands
branding her skin through the thin silk of her robe.
Her pulse fluttered and she felt heat unfurl within her.
Indeed, she must be very wicked to be
glad
that
Henry found her so attractive even if she knew that men were so often driven by
lust and that it meant nothing at all. She remembered the seduction of Henry’s
kisses and the fierce ache they had aroused deep in her belly. She thought of
his mouth tugging on her breast and felt an echo of that delicious need pulse in
a knot deep inside her. She closed her eyes.
“Milady is suffering the vapors?” Madame Estelle had paused in
her measuring to shoot Margery a suspicious look. “She is faint with the effort
of trying on so many gowns?”
“No, indeed,” Margery said hastily, opening her eyes and
banishing the image of Henry making love to her. “I am as strong as a
carthorse.”
Lady Wardeaux made a noise of disapproval. “My dear Marguerite,
a lady simply does not make such inelegant remarks.”
Margery sighed. Lady Wardeaux had lost no time in trying to
improve her but it was going to be an uphill task.
“All is not lost with milady’s figure, however,” Madame Estelle
said. “She has a tiny waist and a rounded
derriere.
Bien!
”
“I am shaped like a pear,” Margery said, “albeit a small
one.”
Lady Wardeaux shook her head “Nor is a lady of quality ever
shaped like a fruit,” she said.
“I am.” Chessie spoke up from where she was sorting through
scarves and gloves by the window. “I am the shape of an apple.”
“A lady of quality,” Lady Wardeaux said, with emphasis,
“resembles a pedigreed horse.”
Madame Estelle was smiling sycophantically. “Just so, madame. A
lady must be a thoroughbred.”
Since Lady Wardeaux herself bore a startling similarity to a
bad-tempered racehorse, Margery was hard put not to catch Chessie’s eye and
dissolve into giggles.
“I pray that you may do your best with such unpromising
material,
Madame,”
she said meekly to the modiste. “I know that I lack height, but I have been
called a perfect miniature.” Her grandfather had said so only the previous
day.
Lady Wardeaux sniffed. “A very inferior form of art, the
miniature,” she said. Her cold dark gaze appraised Margery. “You take after your
grandmama. She was very small. I am afraid she was the daughter of a
banker.”
“That explains everything then,” Margery said. Evidently Lady
Wardeaux thought that the earl had made a deplorable misalliance in marrying
into trade, even though presumably his wife had brought wealth into the family.
She wondered about her grandmother. The earl had talked about his daughter,
Margery’s mother, but had not mentioned his wife at all. Of course, there were
so many things for them to talk about. They had barely started.
Tired of Madame Estelle’s endless pinching and prodding,
Margery excused herself and went across to the bed where the seamstress had laid
out piles of different materials.
“This silk is beautiful,” she said, gently touching a bolt of
eau de nil
shot through with silver thread. “I
would like an evening gown in that color, please, and in the rose-pink.”
Madame smiled. “Of course. As milady is not
une
jeune fille
she may wear deeper colors than the
debutantes.”
“I do think that the cream would suit you, though, Margery,”
Chessie put in thoughtfully. She arranged a deliciously soft scarf about
Margery’s throat and stood back to admire the effect. “Oh, yes. Not white, that
is so draining, but the cream is rich and very flattering to you.”
Lady Wardeaux, stylish to a fault herself in a gown that reeked
of the London salons, gave the tiniest nod of approval of Chessie’s taste. “This
will certainly do until Marguerite can travel to Town and buy some
proper
clothes.”
Madame Estelle bristled at the slur on the quality of her work.
Margery looked at Chessie. Chessie rolled her eyes.
“I doubt I shall be returning to London quite yet,” Margery
said quickly, to smooth matters over. “And Madame’s collection is perfect for
me. If I might also have two day dresses—”
“Two?”
Lady Wardeaux looked
scandalized. “My dear Marguerite, I have a list here.
Ten
day dresses, muslins and gauze, the cream muslin with metal
thread embroidery, then six evening gowns, petticoats, colored and plain, three
spencers, a green pelisse lined with blue, gloves, scarves, shawls, two riding
habits, six bonnets…have I forgotten anything?”
“Slippers and half boots,” Chessie said.
“For riding.” Lady Wardeaux nodded. “Lady Marguerite will not
be walking great distances. Energetic walking is not appropriate for a lady.”
She took hold of Margery’s hands in both of hers, turning them over. “The gloves
should not be too fine or Lady Marguerite’s hands will spoil them. I am afraid
she has the skin of a scullery maid.” She dropped Margery’s hands as though she
were diseased. “I will send my maid along with some rosewater cream in the hope
we may soften them.”
* * *
“B
ETTER
THE
HANDS
OF
a scullery maid than the hide of
an elephant,” Margery said to Chessie over tea a couple of hours later, when the
fitting was at last finished and Madame had departed with promises that the
first of the day gowns would be delivered the following morning. She shook her
head. “Of course I have the hands of a servant. That was my job!”
Chessie passed her a cup of tea and two chocolate pastries that
Margery devoured one after the other. “Is it wrong of me to find Lady Wardeaux
so difficult to like? She is so distant and disapproving! The more I get to know
her the more puzzled I am that Henry was ever born.”
“Why do you think Henry is an only child?” Chessie said
expressively.
Margery snorted inelegantly into her teacup. “I suppose she saw
it as her duty at least to produce an heir. Fortunate for both Lord and Lady
Wardeaux that the firstborn was a boy and they did not need to keep trying.”
“Such
froideur
would wither any
man,” Chessie said. “We should not laugh, though. I remember the late Lord
Wardeaux. He was a frightful rake and his wife had a great deal to put up with.
He humiliated her endlessly with his
affaires
.” She
sighed. “Many women do not seem to enjoy the marriage bed. I remember that Lady
Patchet was delighted when her husband took a mistress. She said to me that they
could split the burden of Lord Patchet’s base demands between them. That was
what she called them—base demands.”
“How disheartening,” Margery said. “I thought—” She stopped.
Not even with Chessie would she discuss those forbidden moments she had spent in
Henry’s arms. She did not think that Chessie would be shocked, but it was too
personal to share. Personal, intimate,
delicious
.
She squirmed a little in the deep armchair. Either Lord Patchet had been doing
it wrong, or Henry was very good or she was very wanton. Or perhaps all three
were true.
She glanced out of the window and saw Henry striding toward the
house from the direction of the lake. He had a fishing rod in one hand and his
jacket slung over his shoulder. The breeze flattened his shirt against his broad
chest and the sunlight was on his thick dark hair. Margery noticed with a jump
of the heart that he looked different, relaxed and content. They were not
emotions she associated with him. It must be Templemore that had wrought the
change in him. She could tell he loved it here.
She wrenched her gaze away from Henry and tried to concentrate
on what Chessie was saying.
“With Fitz, the marriage bed was the best thing about being
wed,” Chessie said. “But since our marriage was appalling in every other
respect, that is not saying a great deal.”
“Oh, dear,” Margery said. “To think that there is nothing to
look forward to if I choose to wed.”
“Choose?” Chessie lifted an expressive eyebrow. “I suspect the
earl already has a list of approved candidates for you, Margery. He will want
the matter settled quickly.” She looked up from stirring honey into her tea, a
little frown between her brows. “You do understand that your marriage is almost
as much of an issue as the royal succession? The continuation of the Earldom of
Templemore is at stake.”
“How medieval,” Margery said. “I feel like a brood mare.”
“Lady Wardeaux has quite settled on the fact that you must
marry Henry,” Chessie said. “How do you like the idea?”
Margery jumped, splashing some of her tea onto the skirt of her
new gown. “God forbid,” she said. She scrubbed at the stain, head bent, a
maneuver that allowed her to hide the pinkness of her cheeks. “Henry is too much
like his mother,” she said, by way of an excuse. “Too cold and stiff and formal
for me.”
“Do you think so?” Chessie looked thoughtful. “I think that
underneath all that formality Henry positively seethes with passion. The fun
would be in unlocking it.”
Margery’s entire body blushed. She was appalled to find that
her fingers were shaking so much that her cup rattled in its saucer like
artillery fire. She knew all about the passion beneath Henry’s cool
exterior.
The gold and bejeweled clock on the mantel struck twelve,
making her jump, but at least allowing her to change the subject.
“I fear the clock is slow,” Chessie said, looking up. “It keeps
poor time.”
“And it is so very ugly,” Margery said. “Carved golden oxen for
feet and jeweled butterflies on the dial! I would not give it house room.”
“It must be worth at least twenty thousand pounds,” Chessie
said. “I believe it was made for King Louis XIV.”
“What use is that if it cannot keep time properly?” Margery
asked. “One of the things about taste I simply don’t understand is how such an
unsightly ornament can be considered so valuable.” She jumped to her feet. “I
must go. I promised to take luncheon with my grandfather today. Oh, I almost
forgot.” She gave Chessie a quick hug. “I purchased the cashmere shawl and a few
other items for you. I hope you do not mind—I saw you admiring them.”
Chessie turned quite pink with pleasure. “Oh, Margery! Thank
you.”
“I know we have not yet discussed your salary as my companion,”
Margery said, feeling very awkward. “And, indeed, Lady Wardeaux would think it
inelegant for me even to mention something as vulgar as money—”
Chessie dismissed this with a wave of the hand. “I am not so
refined as to refuse a wage,” she said, laughing. “When one is penniless, one
must also be practical.”
“Then I shall ask Mr. Churchward to sort the matter out,”
Margery said, with great relief.
Lord Templemore was not in his parlor so Margery waited out in
the hall between two enormous suits of armor that guarded the main entrance. The
silence in the house was deep and oppressive. It was as though Templemore was
asleep. Margery could see her reflection in the endless gilt mirrors that lined
the walls, a neat little figure in Madame Estelle’s hastily adapted creation of
striped blue muslin. The room was enormous and she was so tiny. She felt utterly
dwarfed by the scale of Templemore. It had been built for someone so much
grander than she felt.
Over in the north corner of the hall she also saw the huge
polished wooden stair stretching away up to the first floor, wide enough for
three people to ascend abreast. The polished banisters gleamed enticingly.
Margery felt a wayward spark of mischief. She picked up her skirts, ran up to
the first landing, climbed up on to the top of the banister and slid all the way
down. It was so much fun she did it again, going up to the second landing this
time.